"Ode to Psyche"
by John Keats (1795-1821)



1   O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
2      By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, 
3   And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
4      Even into thine own soft-conched ear: 
5   Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
6      The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? 
7   I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 
8      And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
9   Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
10      In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 
11      Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
12         A brooklet, scarce espied: 
13   'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, 
14      Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
15   They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 
16      Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; 
17      Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
18   As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
19   And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
20      At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 
21         The winged boy I knew; 
22      But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? 
23         His Psyche true! 

24   O latest born and loveliest vision far 
25      Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! 
26   Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, 
27      Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; 
28   Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 
29         Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
30   Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 
31         Upon the midnight hours; 
32   No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
33      From chain-swung censer teeming; 
34   No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
35      Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

36   O brightest! though too late for antique vows, 
37      Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 
38   When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
39      Holy the air, the water, and the fire; 
40   Yet even in these days so far retir'd 
41      From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
42      Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 
43   I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
44   So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
45         Upon the midnight hours; 
46   Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 
47      From swinged censer teeming; 
48   Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 
49      Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

50   Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 
51      In some untrodden region of my mind, 
52   Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, 
53      Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: 
54   Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees 
55      Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; 
56   And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 
57      The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; 
58   And in the midst of this wide quietness 
59   A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
60   With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, 
61      With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, 
62   With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 
63      Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same: 
64   And there shall be for thee all soft delight 
65      That shadowy thought can win, 
66   A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, 
67      To let the warm Love in!